


Smoke Gets In Your Eyes.

by morwrach



Series: A Prowl of Wampuses [6]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: A historically accurate cocktail with a disturbing name!, Caring and Protective Credence Barebone, Fluff, Gossip and Rumour, Graves is a flashy showoff!, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild peril!, Post-Canon Fix-It, Setting: NYC's Magical Duelling Club, Wizarding Journalists!, Wizarding sports!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 11:43:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14748171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morwrach/pseuds/morwrach
Summary: When Graves is injured during a professional duelling tournament, Credence is the perfect nurse.Can be read as a standalone.





	Smoke Gets In Your Eyes.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [graves_expectations](https://archiveofourown.org/users/graves_expectations/gifts).



> Eleven months ago my dear friend Graves_Expectations commented on my fic, _The Good Luck Charm_ to say "Please do give me another 1000000k of duelling Graves and snacking Credence :D" ...and almost a year later, here it is - a fic written especially for you, Nix!  <3

“84th BIENNIAL TOURNAMENT OF DUELLERS IN NORTH AMERICA!” declares the enormous golden banner which floats over the central tournament hall, dancing on an imaginary breeze. Far below, _The Metropolitan Meeting Of The Sons of Honor_ ’s tournament hall thrums with activity – full to bursting with a colourful medley of people who have flooed in just this morning from their own duelling clubs in Chicago, Philadelphia, Detroit, Boston, St Louis, and Cleveland. Young witches and wizards dressed in the latest no-maj fashions rub shoulders with old money in strangely-shaped hats and traditional robes.

“Plaaaaaaaaaaace your bets, ladies and gentleman!” calls out a short bookie from between his cupped hands, newsboy cap stuck far back on his head. 

A hulking wizard in duelling uniform shoulders past him, jostling his shoulder. 

“Wassa matter with you?” the bookie counters, gesticulating after him, “Got no civic pride fella?”

Nearby, sleek officials huddle together, setting their pocket stopwatches by _Honor and Sons_ ’ large astronomical clock whose grasshopper-like ticks pierce the bubbling chatter of conversation. Smartly-dressed witches in bow-ties weave their way through the crowds, selling refreshments and merchandise from trays hung around their necks. Bottles of pumpkin juice clink together as they squeeze through the masses, causing little tins of effervescent lavender mints to rattle, and Patented Pocket Fireworks to crackle and bang. An elf in a matching uniform shoulders past with a tray of empty cocktail glasses held over his head, nodding to the nearest cigarette witch in recognition of a difficult working day.

The crowds part for Graves as he walks through the room with a confident gait, glossy tournament programme tucked under his arm which details his duels the following day. Credence walks by his side, impeccably dressed in a dove-grey three-piece suit, his shining collar bar catching the light from the chandelier. Their hands are just close enough to innocently brush against each other as they walk. Credence waves to Bodichon the barman, who plods wearily through the crowd with a dustpan of broken glass and a broom, and the elf smiles widely in greeting.

A gaggle of reporters are clustered close, a small flock of brightly coloured self-writing quills hovering faithfully by their sides. Although their newspapers are constantly at each other’s throats and rife with feuds and libel cases, they are nevertheless absorbed in gossipy conversation. As Credence and Graves pass by, a tall witch in a sharp suit breaks off conversation with her companions, gesturing towards him with a lit cigarette which wafts pinkish smoke. To Credence’s dismay, all three of the reporters gathered around her turn to study him intently. Shrinking under their analytical appraisal, he slows his pace a little to hide behind Graves. 

“Hey, hey, what is it?” says Graves, noticing his downturned face.

“They’re looking at me - ” Credence whispers under his breath.

Graves glances back over his shoulder. The tall witch takes a long drag of her cigarette and adjusts her fox fur stole. She exhales a plume of pink smoke like cotton candy, before offering him a knowing smile.

“Scandalised by your new shoes, no doubt!” Graves offers smoothly, turning back to Credence. He widens his eyes for dramatic effect. “I hear that style has caused quite the ruckus in New York society!”

Credence brightens at once. He looks down at his shoes – a pair of brogues in frog green leather, a recent gift from Percival. The first time he’d worn them outside the apartment complete strangers had gasped and pointed in the street! Wearing them makes him feel terribly daring.

Graves and Credence watch the doubles duels pressed unnecessarily close in the Members and Competitors box, sharing body warmth all the way from ankles to shoulders. Credence admires him out of the corner of his eye: handsome, saturnine, and sombre as he leans forward with his elbows resting on his knees, attention gripped by the flashy duo from Detroit. He drinks in the lines of Percival’s frown, the way his big hands cup his strong jaw, fingertips catching over his bottom lip, and hotly yearns to reach over and touch him. Their last kiss feels like an age ago – a slow and languorous meeting of mouths just before stepping into the floo’s green flames. He contents himself with brushing some imaginary lint off the shoulder of Percival’s dark suit jacket, an innocent touch to the prying public eye. His guardian is absorbed in the match, wine-dark eyes flitting back and forth, following the movement of competitors like a cat stalking prey. He looks up after a few minutes to school Credence on the duelling techniques playing out in front of them. Catching his longing gaze, he offers a wry, fond smile and a pat on the knee before launching into a professorial tirade about the unprofessionalism of overusing the jelly-legs jinx.

Credence leans precariously over the barrier when Sciacca and Kratides, _Honor and Sons’_ own doubles competitors, step up for their match against two witches from St Louis. Fingers clutching the bar tightly, he cheers so fervently that it’s hard to believe he was ever afraid to raise his voice. Completely absorbed, he watches the pairs weave in and out of each other’s space, sure footed in the dance of the duel. Practiced in working as a team, Kratides distracts as Sciacca advances, receiving a glancing blow to the arm for his efforts. Credence admires their unspoken communication: that intuitive sense of when to advance and when to retreat, co-conspirators in deceiving their opponents, of setting traps, of testing their own bond of trust.

In a lull between matches, an austere-looking wizard in formal robes approaches. After briefly introducing himself, he extricates a book from his deep sleeves, from which emerges a black and white moving photograph of a much younger Percival, in duelling uniform striking a swaggering pose. The wizard then produces a large phoenix-feather quill from the other sleeve. He proffers both in Graves’ direction and stammers “Might you do me the honor?” Credence sneaks a glance over Graves’ shoulder as he writes his signature. Picture-Percival catches his eye and winks.

Thus the first day of the tournament passes by in a heady blur of sparkling spells, waving pennant flags, the chatter of conversation or shouted exclamations, and the lingering sweetness of honeycomb toffee on his lips which Graves soundly kisses away in a dark corner.

***

“We’re all out of Pumpkin juice, bub,” the barman says bluntly, drying a glass with a dishcloth.

Credence quails, as he usually does when met with an obstacle to a carefully rehearsed choice. His mouth had begun to feel dry with anticipation before Graves’ semi-final duel, and he’d slipped out of his seat intent on picking up a juice from an attendant and returning quickly. However, the hall has been cleared of cigarette girls and boys in preparation for the semi-final, which is how he finds himself at the bar, struggling with choice as Bodichon bombards him with suggestions.

“Gin Rickey? Sidecar? Corpse Reviver? Nettle liqueur? Lobe Blaster? Julep? Hanky Panky? Highball?”

Credence doesn’t know what half of the offered drinks contain, and nettle liqueur sounds particularly offensive. He continues to be baffled by the strange appetites of the wizarding world. Spoilt for choice, he stands silent and fraught.

Just then the woman standing next to him at the bar leans over, and in a confident, strident voice says “He’ll have a Parsley Soda, and my usual for me, Bodi.”

She passes over the required payment before Credence can do anything about it, and tsks at his offer of money.

“One Parsley Soda, and a Corpse Reviver,” Bodichon says cheerily, sliding the two drinks across the bar – one green with a frothy surface, and the other honey-yellow with a twist of grapefruit peel and a red glow at its centre.

Credence takes a sip and turns to thank his saviour. To his surprise, it’s the tall reporter from the previous day. She’s wearing a skirt suit in brown tweed, and a little hat with a long pheasant feather - but clearly the very same witch. She extends one hand in greeting, encased in an elbow-length mustard yellow kid glove.

“Fenella Braun” she declares smoothly, “Senior reporter for The Duellist.”

Credence shakes it, remembering Graves’ maxim _A firm handshake makes a man._

“Credence – “ he hesitates, thinking of MACUSA’s strict rules about his lack of education about the magical world and the wand burning a hole in his pocket “- Goldstein”

Fenella leans on the bar, pressing back an errant wisp of light blond hair with the back of her fingers. She arches one perfect eyebrow.

“and what do you do, Mr _Goldstein_?” She pronounces his last name like she knows full well that it’s not his.

“I’m studying,” Credence offers brightly. Studying is certainly one way to describe trying to catch up on over a decade of magical education and a lifetime of magical culture.

“A scholar of the art! In this day and age! How charming,” Fenella smiles, “and you’re studying with Percival Graves. I had no idea he was taking up the mantle of a Professor in his untimely retirement…”

Feeling himself in somewhat of a bind, Credence jumps to amend himself “I don’t study with him! I just live with him – “

“Oh!” Fenella’s eyes brighten. “You’re his...well, what should I call it?” she pauses, expectantly, knowingly, a kind expression painted over her features. Bodichon scowls at her.

Credence flounders as her lips quirk into a smirk.

Thankfully Credence is saved once again, this time by Kratides, who comes to fetch him for the Semi-Final. Fenella stalks back to the other side of the stands, patting Credence on the shoulder in passing with one yellow-gloved hand.

***

“Raise your voices for our next competitor! Twenty-seven years old and already the holder of no less than six competition titles ladies and gentlemen!” A shiver of excitement runs through the crowd, before the commentator says in a voice which swoops: “It’s your champion from the city of Boston, Grainne O’Kelly!”

The stands explode into a riot of whooping and clapping as a series of screeching golden fireworks erupt from the end of platform, forming a burnished circle in the air which evaporates into a hoop of smoke. O’Kelly steps through it, beating her chest with her closed fist before raising her arm to greet the crowd. Two things immediately surprise Credence about her – she’s short and wearing a knee-length pleated skirt, hardly the tall masculine sportswoman he was expecting. Her features are small and pretty, with a slightly upturned little nose - but there’s a hardness to them too. Comfortable in her own popularity, she offers the crowd an impish little smile, and her dark eyes burn like coals. At ground level, down at the very edge of the barriers, Credence can see a little girl jumping up and down incessantly shouting “Grainne! Grainne!” It strikes him suddenly that Modesty would love watching duels – perhaps he could take her on a trip during the Ilvermorny holidays.

O’Kelly’s orange and green banner unfurls itself alongside Graves’ sombre black and silver one as the opponents shake hands in the middle of the platform.

As the referee runs through the Rules of Combat – no summoning of objects, no hits aimed above the shoulders, leaving the platform means immediate disqualification – O’Kelly stretches in preparation, bending to touch her toes before straightening to roll her shoulders. She carefully removes her left glove and clenches and unclenches her wand hand. 

The duel begins with a crack of artificial lightning from the referee’s wand which rends the air. There’s a split-second of calm before O’Kelly surges forward and the duel has begun. Combat is frantic, humourless, intense. Credence chews at his lip as hits cascade back and forth like a particularly aggressive game of tennis, spraying sparks dangerously close to the crowd of rapt watchers. Even from this distance, it’s clear that Graves is burning with determination – his eyes are hard and focused, and the long lithe lines of his body are tense. Every movement is tightly controlled, even the hard swipes of his wand speak of impatience. There’s no trace of the theatrical, showy moves which Graves usually exhibits whilst duelling or the light-hearted flimsy insults he sometimes throws around when he’s having fun. 

After what seems like hours, Graves finally gets the upper hand with a whip spell which tugs at O’Kelly’s ankle and causes her to momentarily lose her footing. Credence cheers excitedly.

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ” Graves calls out in a deep, commanding voice. 

His words seem to shake the air. The disarming charm’s familiar little burst of light shoots directly across the platform and catches O’Kelly in the forearm just as she casts a spell with a flick of the wrist. Struck by the force of the spell, her wand arm jerks violently upwards.

Redirected, O’Kelly’s spell fizzes angrily through the air at top speed. Graves brings his hand up to shield himself mere seconds before the beam of bright white light crashes into his face. With a yell of anguish, he crumples down onto the platform with his hands pressed over his eyes.

In a moment he would replay over and over in his mind for weeks to come, Credence surges out of his seat with all the speed of a top of the range racing broom. Soda sloshes across his lap and seeps into the expensive material of his suit trousers – but nothing seems to matter except reaching Percival, expensive material and the complaints of his neighbours as he climbs over them be damned.

The officials close in on O’Kelly who hands over her wand. “It wasn’t anything harmful,” she’s saying defensively, “just clawr niwl!” In that same moment, an explosion sounds from the stands, a sickening booming noise. People begin to scream and jostle. 

“It’s Grindelwald!” a voice screeches. 

Someone else shouts out “For Merlin’s sake, someone fetch a medic!” 

Journalists begin to call out questions, adding to the cacophony of panic and noise…but Credence’s world has narrowed to Graves, curled over on his side on the platform, choking out sobs of pain.

Credence cradles Graves’ head in his lap, leans forward to shield him from prying eyes as best he can, uncaring of the crowd’s gaze as he strokes Graves’ cheek. 

“Credence?” Graves asks searchingly. His dark eyes look right through him, unfocused and he feels for Credence’s hand with his own, shaking one. 

Credence takes Graves’ shaking hand in his own, and kisses it regardless of the watching crowds. 

“I’m here” he murmurs, trying not to sound frightened. 

The obscurus thrashes within his chest, distressed and panicked. He takes a deep breath and pushes it back down. 

“Credence,” Graves says again, brokenly “I can’t see anything.” 

The pain is evidently winning the battle against Graves’ stoicism, showing in the close knit of his brows and the tightness at the corner of his mouth. Credence strokes his sweat-slicked hair with what he hopes is a soothing steadiness until the medics arrive, pushing through the gathering crowds with a stretcher floating between them.

***

The medical bay is hushed and calm, shielded from the rest of _Honor and Sons_ by quieting cotton-wool charms which are carefully renewed each morning. Graves breaths a heavy sigh of relief when he cracks open his eyes to find his vision bleary but intact. The room swims into view, small glimpses visible through a white mist. It’s hardly changed since his last duelling accident, the one which left a rather fetching scar on his upper arm – the same beds with crisp starched sheets, a glass-fronted potions cabinet, and the enlarged fireplace to transport stretchers directly to Charity Wilkinson Hospital. He sits up on the bed, wincing at pain in his arm, and the throbbing ache in his head before popping a few buttons on his duelling jacket and rubbing his slightly-stubbly throat. Through the haze of spellwork and sedative, he can just about hear voices conversing outside the door.

“It seems O’Kelly’s spell was deflected straight into Director Graves’ eyes,” says a calm, clinical voice. “It’s a spell we rarely see on the circuit, Muggle Mist _…”_

“Muggle Mist?” asks Credence voice. The sound of it, its singular cadence, warms Graves immediately.

“Yes, a bit of magic developed by British wizards living near bogs. It creates a sort of temporary fog to distract no-majes, rudimentary but one can’t question its efficacy…”

“Doctor, is the damage permanent?” Credence cuts in, tone steely and determined.

“No, son,” reassures the medic, gently. “Even cast directly into the eyes, Muggle Mist only lasts 30 minutes at most. It should have begun wearing off already.” His voice turns harder “The bruising to the Director’s face is quite severe however,” he cautions “it needs to be iced, but he’s as stubborn as a kneazle. Perhaps you can convince him.”

Graves huffs. _I’m much more stubborn than a kneazle_ he thinks, proudly.

“I can do it.” Credence says, quickly. “Can I see him now?”

Graves hears the sound of the infirmary door banging open and closed, and watches as a hazy figure comes towards him, a slender blur of black and grey which coalesces into Credence as it sits carefully on the edge of the bed. Unbelievably relieved, he grips Credence firmly by his upper arms, ignoring the pain as he tenses his wounded hand around his bicep.

“It’s alright, Credence,” he says, sounding steadier than he feels, “I’m alright.”

He feels Credence relax, before the trainee wizard is wrapping his arms around Graves neck and hugging him tightly. He folds his tired arms around Credence’s slim waist and pulls him closer.

"I wouldn't’ve got seriously injured when I've got you to take home tonight," Graves murmurs into Credence’s cold ear.

He wonders who he’s really reassuring with such an illusion of control, but he delights all the same when Credence hides his face, huffing warm breath into the crook of his neck.

The soft black wave of Credence’s hair falls in front of his eyes as he carefully disinfects Graves’ torn and bloodied knuckles with antiseptic. He pulls his lower lip into his mouth as he concentrates on winding the bandage, fixing it in place with a sealing charm and a tap of his wand.

“You’ve done a very good job of this, nurse” Graves says, genuinely, turning his hand to examine it.

He doesn’t miss the way Credence smiles proudly. Although seeing Credence looking proud of himself has become so habitual now that he almost forgets how impossible it once seemed.

“Say, nurse, I could sure use a kiss,” Graves ventures tilting his chin upwards.

“Sounds to me like you’ve got a concussion” Credence quips back, fondly. “I’ll go fetch some ice for that.” and without further ado, he’s off to the bar, leaving Graves alone once more in the mist over his vision.

The perfect nurse, Credence tentatively presses the ice pack against Graves’ injured temple, flinching a little when his patient winces. Graves offers him an apologetic expression as the coldness of the un-melting ice begins to lessen the needle-like stinging behind his eye. Pressed close, the scent of Credence pierces through the veil of spell and sedative – clean soap and lavender cologne, grounding in its familiarity. They sit like that for a long while in comfortable silence until the wispy clouds finally fade from Graves’ vision like the fog from a crystal ball.

When the ice pack begins to turn to slush in his hand, Credence dumps it in the sink and sits down carefully on the bed. He tucks his chin-length hair behind his elfin ears with both hands, earnest adoration writ plain across his features. Graves notes that Credence’s expensive suit jacket and waistcoat have been carelessly discarded across an empty bed nearby. 

Credence looks very handsome like this, Graves thinks idly, with his shirt sleeves rolled up and suspenders taut across his chest. He traces along the tantalising line of one, stroking from waist to shoulder before Credence captures his injured hand and takes it in his own.

“I feared the worst,” he says tentatively, “There was an explosion in the stands, and people thought it might be - _him_ but it was only a misfiring pocket firework.” 

Graves gets a laugh out of that, and is relieved to see that it brings a little brightness to 

Credence’s solemn face. He watches Credence’s pale throat bob as he composes himself before continuing. Graves might be struggling to stay fully conscious, but he can still appreciate the finer things in life.

“If it had been Grindelwald,” Credence says solemnly, “I would have killed him before he reached you. Even if I’d been arrested.”

There’s a fierce challenge in his eyes, a reminder that Credence only allows Graves to play at being the Protector, and he chooses against responding verbally, instead leaning in for a kiss.

Credence presses his lips back against Graves’ own firmly and insistently, hand resting in the middle of Graves’ chest. When Graves wraps his uninjured arm around his slim waist and tugs him closer, he melts into the embrace. Graves strokes the small of his back – the arch from lower back to tailbone, kissing Credence soundly and carefully. He’s making those wonderful soft noises in his throat as they kiss – little satisfied ‘mmm’s which vibrate against his lips. Graves feels like he’d be content to kiss Credence like this for hours, if only to keep listening to those little hums of pleasured contentment. He cradles the back of Credence’s head with his bandaged hand, and tilts his face, angling his mouth to gain more access. Credence gives a whine of need, and his fingers grip at the fabric of Graves’ jacket – and that’s when they both hear the click of the camera shutter and the sound of the flash. There’s a momentary pause, before Graves is pulling Credence down against his chest and yelling: shouting curse words and calling for security and yelling so the young man in his arms knows he’s protected, knows he is loved enough to fight for. Ms Fenella Braun turns heel and paces speedily from the room, incriminating camera dangling on a strap over her arm. 

***

A week later, a parcel wrapped in brown paper and addressed in gold ink to _Mr. Credence Goldstein_ arrives with the post. Opening it, Credence finds a glossy copy of the newest issue of _The Duellist_ with a little slip of paper marking one page.

 _SHEIK FINDS HIS SHEBA!_ reads the headline in glittering silver. Underneath smaller text reads _“New York’s most eligible bachelor is off the market!”_ He devours the article with a mix of excitement and apprehension and is relieved to find himself described as nothing more than _“Percival Graves’ mystery lover.”_ No name, no gender, no obscurus. The article is instead full of scandalous rumour – a witch working at _Ebbingdale’s_ claims Graves is helplessly infatuated with a French actress known as The Silken Sorceress, whilst a MACUSA insider claims Graves has taken up with the disgraced and debauched son of a Sicilian noble. According to various eyewitnesses, Graves appeared at the Tournament with "the aforementioned Sicilian rake, alive with fevered Italian desire,” or alternatively “a young actress dressed in a modish suit.” Credence smiles at how disappointed they’d be to find out his identity - just a young man of low and unremarkable birth, not yet a real wizard. There are some saucy quotes, including one sure to infuriate Percival later - _“No fool like an old fool” says a Mr Abernathy, a work colleague.”_ Credence hiccups a laugh. The whole thing seems surreal and terribly glamorous.

There’s a large heart-shaped photograph in the centre of the page, and Credence sucks in a breath as he realises it’s from Sunday afternoon. There they are, in crisp black and white, pressed close in the medical bay. Percival caresses his jawline, his eyes soft and warm, before capturing his lips in the tenderest of kisses. A bright puff of light and white smoke fills the scene momentarily, before they are breaking apart, Percival pulling Credence down to hide his face against his chest, stretching out a hand to block himself from view, expression angry. He watches the photograph replay over and over, noticing different things each time: the fondness in Percival’s gaze, his hand over the back of Credence’s hidden head, the soft line of his own curls, the pleasing slope of his own nose - he looks beautiful, he thinks suddenly. Like a person someone could love.

He cuts the heart out with nail scissors from the bathroom and balances it carefully on his nightstand. There it sits, month after month and year after year, touched by sunlight and moonlight and reverent fingertips - their photographic selves kissing over and over, gathering dust.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the 1933 song 'Smoke Gets In Your Eyes' sung by Gertrude Niesen, Parsley Soda is from A Series of Unfortunate Events, and a Corpse Reviver was a real cocktail in the 1920s (it even has a 'sister drink' The Corpse Reviver #2!)
> 
> The charming Ms Fenella Braun is based on Marlene Dietrich, and yes, she's a lesbian. I'm pretty sure she gets Credence his first job as an office clerk in the Wizarding magazine world and gives him his first puff of a magical cigarette. 
> 
> [You can find me on tumblr @nettlekettle](http://nettlekettle.tumblr.com/) \- feel welcome to say hi!


End file.
